The Look

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by The Book Guild Ltd Unit E2 Airfield Business Park, Harrison Road, Market Harborough, Leicestershire. LE16 7UL Tel: 0116 2792299 www.bookguild.co.uk Email: [email protected] Twitter: @bookguild Copyright © 2023 Lee Coates The right of Lee Coates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead. ISBN 978 1915853 851 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. For my dad Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five One Declarations of love. Words of wisdom. Heartfelt platitudes. These verbal messages feel profound upon delivery, but their impact and potency degrade as years go by. Certain looks, however, are able to scorch their image onto the retina for a lifetime. They convey more emotion than words ever could. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Unambiguous. Ever since clawing for my first gasp of air, thirty-two years ago, I’ve been the recipient of just a handful of these looks. Looks I will undoubtedly take to my grave. Bitter disappointment from Mrs Kennedy when I confessed to doodling on a newly painted classroom wall in primary school. Shameless pride from my Grandma Daniels while revealing my university acceptance letter. Wanton lust from a former colleague, Sadie, at the conclusion of an office Christmas party. Divine happiness from my girlfriend, Ffion, after being presented with an engagement ring. Recently, though, there was a life-changing and visceral look delivered by my dad. He was caught unawares so I only received a summary of the message, before the connection was severed, but the emotion being conveyed was crystal clear. Pure hatred. Two I love my dad. Callum Daniels. In fact, he’s my idol. Any aspirations I have in life are secondary to becoming half the man he is. As a direct result of my mum abandoning the family nest before I’d reached the tender age of two, a decision incurred by relentless post-natal depression, he assumed the mantle of single parent, brother and friend in one fell swoop. His success in each role was exemplary, with perhaps only his brotherly responsibilities falling short of perfection. However, this shortcoming can only be attributed to the irredeemable age difference, nothing else. Nevertheless, the key weapon in his armoury, enabling him to fulfil these wildly differing positions in my life with such aplomb, was his humour. Memories from my childhood seem to consist entirely of fun and laughter. Within the last twelve months, not completely oblivious to the hardships of parenting, I decided to ask him how difficult it was raising a son by himself. ‘Jimbo, I’ll be honest with you,’ he said, not missing a beat, ‘the first thirty years were a bastard!’ Like on many other occasions before and since, a witty retort would cause enough of a distraction, preventing me from probing further. This time was no exception. However, despite the flippancy, I understood straight away that it was far from easy. I was born and raised in Huddersfield, a large Yorkshire mill town perched on the eastern slope of the Pennines. My dad earned a moderately successful living as a freelance photographer. As far back as I can remember, the weekends always afforded the most rewarding quality time between us. I would be whisked away to new and exciting locations, desperate to cut the mustard as his able assistant. Whether it was taking readings on his light meter or carrying his tripod case, no job was too mundane. Weddings. Exhibitions. Fairs. Dog races. Athletics events. I enjoyed every second in his company. These excursions opened my eyes to the world and to human nature. I quietly observed how my dad would make everyone, behind and in front of the camera, feel comfortable and at ease. Subtle changes in technique would be employed for different personality traits. Invariably, the end product of these jaunts was a more-than-satisfied customer and another in a long line of word-of-mouth recommendations. Years later, as the daunting prospect of finishing school crawled ever nearer, I clung to the hope that an iota of his artistic flare had rubbed off on me. Rather than pursuing photography as a potential career, perhaps serving as a barometer of my generation, I instead studied web design at Aston University in Birmingham. Leaving home was difficult for both of us. I lost that immediate access to advice and guidance, such an overlooked luxury taken for granted by teenagers, and Dad lost companionship. During those three years, his loneliness was exacerbated further when my Grandma Daniels died. Although she had only previously cameoed in our lives, due to a strange relationship with my dad I don’t fully comprehend to this day, her love towards us was true and unconditional. Time passed quickly but unremarkably at university. From talking to contemporaries, I was led to believe that these years would be the rich soil from which the happiest times in my life would blossom. Full of indelible memories forged with friendships that would exist equally as long. That was not the case for me. The honour of being the first Daniels to attend higher education seemed to be a heavy chalice to carry, so every effort was made to live up to those lofty expectations. My degree had scant regard for free time, instead throwing hour after hour of bone-dry lectures and projects. This hampered any